


I Fear I Had a Love (And Now It’s Gone)

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dubious Morality, M/M, Memory Loss, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rimming, Top Scott McCall, Top Stiles Stilinski, Uses ideas from S6 but messes with them deliberately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: It hurts, but Stiles can't deny the truth. He's stuck in Beacon Hills and no one remembers him. Scott doesn't remember him. They fall into each other anyway.   Was it part of the Ghost Riders’ magic? Another element of the cruel curse? As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d been effectively blinked out of existence. What was a person, without other people’s memories of them? Shared experiences. Understandings. Nothing but fiction, nothing but a lie. And now, this – a connection, but the wrong kind. Misshapen and skewed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [snoopypez](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/pseuds/snoopypez) for beta-reading, handholding, and checking I hadn't slipped in any Britishisms or Australianisms. Title from the Lior song 'Building Ships'.
> 
> Explanation for why I applied the mildly dubious consent tag is in the end notes.

Stiles shouldn’t be loitering around the school, he knows that. It’s a bad idea to wait on the corner and stare at his friends as they file out into the sunshine. It’s only going to cause pain in the long run, to be there when Scott glances up and looks right through him.

But he’s loitering around the school. Anyone would think a typical teenager, when faced with the option of not needing to attend High School anymore, would be off, away, having fun. And he tried it, for a couple of days. He’d tried to forget his previous life, the person who no longer exists. Somehow, he always winds up back here; waiting, watching. Stiles isn’t a typical teenager. He hasn’t been for a long time.

There’s Scott, walking out of the school. He’s alone for once, and instead of concentrating on the sidewalk, he’s looking up. For the first time in weeks, Scott’s staring directly at him. Stiles wonders if his chemosignals were stronger than usual, if Scott sensed his unhappiness, or whether it was just luck. He’s given up on thinking it will be because Scott recognizes him. As someone he’s seen lurking about on street corners, maybe. As his best friend of 12 years, no. Stiles responds to the gaze with a quirk of his lips. He doesn’t expect Scott to start walking over. 

“Hey,” Scott says, mild, but wary. “Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Are you here to cause trouble?” Scott asks next, and Stiles is surprised by the confrontation. Scott’s not being aggressive, but there’s a definite tone there suggesting that if Stiles is thinking of causing mayhem and strife he should probably get the hell out of dodge.

“No, I’m not,” Stiles says. “I’m waiting for a friend, that’s all.”

Scott squints at this, a mannerism he’s unknowingly adopted from Stiles. It hurts to see it, to recognize it as one of their shared expressions. Like how Stiles bites his lower lip when he’s bashful, like how they both snuffle-snort their laughter when they’re affectionately mocking someone. They grew up in a constant feedback loop and while Stiles can usually remember who started what, he couldn’t say when they each started adopting each other’s quirks. 

Scott gives him another once over. It carries a quality Stiles hasn’t seen directed toward himself before, a sort of assessment and challenge all in one. It sends a pulse into his lower stomach. “You know, you’re not very subtle.”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t have to be.”

“How long are you gonna wait for this friend?” Scott asks, and it’s obvious he thinks Stiles is playing pretend, that there isn’t anyone. 

“As long as it takes,” Stiles replies, because it’s true. He stops himself from scratching at the back of his neck or picking at his fingernails. Stops himself from showing his discomfort. Scott’s expression indicates his care in doing so was unnecessary and naïve.

“If you ever need my help, wait here around this time again,” Scott says in a calm, soothing voice, like he’s used at the clinic when tending to small, sad, pathetic creatures. 

“Thanks. I… I appreciate it,” Stiles says, and he can hear the warmth in his voice, the gratitude, even though he knows he won’t follow through on the offer. It’s not a tone he’s used with many people; he can’t help but use it with Scott. 

Scott walks away after saying goodbye, doesn’t cast another glance back. Stiles stays where he is for another fifteen minutes in case Scott decides to double back, before trudging to his shitty motel room. He flicks on the TV and collapses onto the bed with his head in his hands. There aren’t words for this level of missing someone that don’t include a heavy sense of death and irreversible loss.

*

The funny thing is, he isn’t even stalking Scott the next time they run into each other. He’s sitting in a diner on the outskirts of town, a place they’ve never been together before. His dad used to bring him here sometimes when Stiles had hidden in the back of his cruiser, to soften the blow of when he’d call a Deputy to take Stiles home. 

He’s eating scrambled eggs on rye. There’s a twofold benefit to that -- it’s his favorite preparation of eggs, and it’s within his price range of $4.50. When the wider world no longer believes you exist, you have to make compromises. He works as a kitchen hand, a cleaner and a yard worker to earn cash. His first paychecks went to acquiring a fake ID. The things he’d been taking for granted became startlingly apparent to him within three days.

Scott sits on a stool by the counter and gives his order before he swings around and looks at his fellow patrons. It’s a quick sweep of his eyes and Stiles doesn’t know if he wants to be noticed or not. He’s not good when it comes to evisceration and their last conversation cut him up, quick but deep. When Scott’s eyes settle on him, they widen slightly. He gives the server, Simone, a smile, says something, points to Stiles’ table and walks over.  
Stiles shoves another forkful of eggs into his mouth so he doesn’t have to speak. 

“Hello again,” Scott says with a devastating, easy smile. Stiles has the irritating urge to give him the world’s longest noogie. 

“Hi,” he replies after he finally swallows. He’d been enjoying these eggs, but now they taste like sorrow-filled sawdust.

“Your friend turn up?”

“Ditched me.”

Maybe if he isn’t very responsive, Scott will give up.

What’s he thinking? Scott never gives up. Tenacity’s his middle name. He chose it when they were eight.

“Sorry to hear that. You want company?”

At this point, Stiles could and should decline. He should send Scott on his way, rush through the next three quarters of his meal and wander aimlessly around town. He should be his usual, off-putting self. 

Except Scott’s never found him off-putting and even though he’s still shovelling toast and eggs into his mouth like coal into a furnace, Scott doesn’t seem disgusted or deterred.

“Okay,” Stiles says, mouth half-full. That’s noncommittal enough, surely?

“I’m Scott.” He tilts his head to the side. “And you look like a Rupert to me.” 

“What?” Stiles says. “Who names their kid Rupert? What a terrible fucking moniker.”

“What _are_ you named, then?” 

“Stiles.” The second he says it, he realizes it was a trap. But since it was laid by Scott, he doesn’t feel too concerned. 

“And you’re criticizing Rupert. All right,” Scott returns, mildly, just as his waffles and two thickshakes are delivered to their table. 

“I didn’t order this,” Stiles says to Simone, more caustic than he really wants to be. He can’t pay for it. He literally only has pennies left.

She looks at him pointedly and gestures to Scott, who’s smiling softly. 

“You looked like you needed a pick-me-up,” Scott says, deceptively casual. Probably realistically anticipating them ignoring her, Simone huffs out an exasperated sigh and walks away. “So, Stiles, what brings you to Beacon Hills?”

“I grew up here,” Stiles says, because Scott can detect lies and he hasn’t been quick enough to think of anything. There are five elementary schools and he could claim he always stayed this side of the town center. It’s not completely implausible that they wouldn’t know each other. He looks older than 18 now anyway, stress having aged him.

But Scott’s narrowing his eyes at him, sucking through his straw, and it’s --- well, it’s distractingly hot for one thing, and weird for another. Stiles tends to discount Scott’s curiosity and eye for detail because it clashes with his own. It’s out in full force today. 

“I feel like I would have seen you before,” Scott says, straight up implying he’s a liar. The nerve. 

Stiles waves that pronouncement away. “I’m not very memorable.”

“Now, that’s not true. You’re distinctive. Unique.” 

Stiles has been called these things before, but usually as an insult. Scott doesn’t sound disparaging. If anything, he’s intent, studying Stiles, eyes lingering on his lips every few moments. 

Stiles is _confused_. Scott’s straight. He’s never expressed even the mildest of attractions to any guy they’ve known, even when Stiles was pretty sure the guy in question would be down for it. Danny, Isaac, younger edition Derek. Stiles was convinced they’d all had gigantic Scott-shaped crushes and Scott hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. He’d been kindly letting Stiles get away with his simmering desire without mention since he became a wolf. There was no doubt in Stiles’ mind that Scott would’ve picked it up with his superpowers. Hell, he might’ve known before that. 

“Scott, are you hitting on me?”

He expects a firm denial, a vigorous shake of Scott’s head, but that doesn’t come. Instead, Scott swirls his straw in his glass and he’s the combination of coy and confident that has baffled and enticed Stiles for years. 

“Would you be interested if I was?”

What a stupid question. It isn’t truly a question at all.

“I have to go. Like right away. I have to go because I forgot I had a thing. And the thing is important. And yeah, this is… I’m late, so--”

Stiles picks up the slice of toast and eggs still on his plate, folding them into something resembling a squashed calzone, downs the rest of his shake, giving himself a mild brain-freeze, and stumbles out of the diner as fast as his legs will carry him. He doesn’t look back for Scott’s reaction, doesn’t give himself a second to regret his choices. He escapes.

*

Was it part of the Ghost Riders’ magic? Another element of the cruel curse? As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d been effectively blinked out of existence. What was a person, without other people’s memories of them? Shared experiences. Understandings. Nothing but fiction, nothing but a lie. And now, this – a connection, but the wrong kind. Misshapen and skewed. 

It makes Stiles sick inside, how much he’d wanted to say yes. How much he’d wanted to see what would happen. He’s always been half in love with Scott. When they were younger he thought it was because it was invariably them against the world, and as he grew up he thought maybe it was safety and comfort and familiarity, but then he started to realize Scott’s the best person he’s ever known, that Stiles would do anything for him, and perhaps it’s never been half at all, maybe it’s always been whole. 

He tries to distract himself. He works, endlessly, practically lives at the library, researching whatever he can find on the supernatural. He watches his dad for a while, rather than his friends. Just in case. 

But that hurts too badly, like several thousand paper-cuts against his soul. His dad is so lonely without him, but doesn’t even seem to realize it. He drinks every night, works too hard, practically eats entire sticks of butter for breakfast. He doesn’t take care of himself. Perhaps Stiles is being disgustingly egotistical in thinking that it’s because he doesn’t have anyone to live for. It feels true, regardless. And somehow, his dad’s still tangled up in the supernatural bullshit Stiles dragged him into. Stiles watches him help Deaton on several occasions. 

Naturally, Stiles _would_ find himself nearly getting mauled to death by a wendigo while spying on his own father. And, of course, Scott would be the one to rescue him. He swears his life is a farce with the comedy removed. 

He’s panting rapidly, his shirt bloodied and torn, when Scott descends on him and Maximilian Tarrant, teen wendigo, like a Grecian demi-God. Max is hungry and Stiles was trying to help him curb his cravings with a herbal infusion, but maybe Stiles smells especially tasty, or it’d been way too long between meals, because Max went into full monster mode and has been trying to chow down on Stiles’ arm. 

"Don’t hurt him,” Stiles says; rasps. “He’s 13. A kid.” 

Scott nods, incapacitates Max by cutting off his airway. Settles him gently on the ground. He’s so tender, Stiles aches. “You okay?”

“This is Max’s blood,” Stiles says, still breathing hard. Damn, he’s out of shape. He doesn’t understand it. He’s spent the majority of the last 2 years running for his life. How is he not Marvel Movie actor levels of superhuman?

“You know what he is,” Scott states. “Know what I am. But if you were a hunter, you wouldn’t care if I killed him. What gives?”

“I’m an emissary in training.”

Is it a lie if it’s something he’s thought about, something he’s discussed? If he’s spent the past two months finding out the prerequisites? 

Curiosity drains from Scott’s face, to be replaced with wariness and Stiles is forcefully reminded that Scott’s previous encounters with emissaries have led to death and destruction. “That explains some things.”

“I only wanna help,” Stiles says, and wills Scott to believe him. Hopes he doesn’t think Stiles has powers in masking his scent, his heartbeat.

“You do, huh? Maybe you should leave, then. He’s gonna wake up soon. With you around, he’ll be frenzied.”

Stiles acknowledges this with a dip of his head. 

“I’ve got these herbs, for Max. He adds it to a steak dinner and he gets all the nutrients he needs from human flesh. ‘Cause, you know, he’s like the wendigo version of a vegetarian, not cut out for eating people. But he needs to supplement his diet and he hasn’t been, didn’t know how. Will you help him, when he wakes up?”

Stiles knows Scott will help him. It wasn’t a request so much as a vehicle for necessary information. But he can’t explain that he knew already that Scott wouldn’t use lethal force, that he’d do anything he could for a kid wrestling with his inner monster. He can’t share his trust, has to keep it hidden. 

“I’ll help,” Scott says. 

Stiles turns to walk away, but Scott speaks again. “Sorry I made you uncomfortable the other day. Sometimes I misread people.”

Stiles drops his head down, sighs. Thinks about the consequences and says what he wants to say anyway. “You didn’t misread me,” he admits, over his shoulder. “See you around, Scott.”

*

Something that has annoyed Stiles about Scott since they first met was how he gives people second chances. He must’ve given Jackson six or seven before he realized that no amount of kindness was going to stop him being the biggest asshole they knew. Seriously, the number of times Jackson stomped on their toys, or called them names, was in the decades. It was only when Jackson punched Stiles and knocked out a tooth that Scott vowed never to invite him to play again. 

It’s not like Scott trusts the people he affords his time and attention to, though, despite what Stiles has said to the contrary in moments of anger. He doesn’t immediately assume the best. He doesn’t open himself up and let himself be taken advantage of. It’s more that he gives people space to make better choices. Scott seems to have this belief that because everyone has the capacity to grow, most people will. Stiles envies that about him. He wishes he were that idealistic. 

Scott’s approach to the finer aspects of humanity has benefitted him, Stiles can’t deny that. After another week of stalking from afar, seeing Scott, Liam and Mason help Max, watching his dad eat seven tacos in one sitting, Stiles sits in the diner again and looks up as a thickshake slides against the tabletop. 

“Hey,” Scott says. “Max asked me to repay you. Thought I might find you here.”

And Stiles knew that, didn’t he? That was why he was _here_ , instead of any place else, somewhere Scott wouldn’t easily search out. 

"Man's gotta eat, don’t he?” Stiles says, spearing some fried chicken with a fork.

Scott snickers at him, a smile lighting up his face. “You sound like a character from a noir detective film.”

“He walked into the diner like a wolf stalking his prey. He had legs for days and muscles for months. His eyes were warm, but dark, like a summer’s night. I could tell he was bad news, like Fox or NBC,” Stiles counters, because he desperately wants to hear Scott laugh. 

He isn’t disappointed. Scott’s laugh is rich and _lovely_ , and Stiles realizes he hasn’t heard it in over a year.

“You make me sound so dangerous,” Scott says. He toys with the cuff of his denim jacket. “But you don’t act like I am.”

“I know you have the potential to be,” Stiles says, honestly. “But the control to avoid it.”

Scott gazes at him, again, obvious in his scrutiny. There is something utterly enthralling about having his undivided attention. Stiles hasn’t had it for a long time, but here, now, it’s like he’s Scott’s only concern. 

“You know a lot,” Scott replies. He leans forward, confident and self-assured. “I want to know you.” His expression, his body language, don’t leave his intentions to the imagination. If Scott’s straight, no one told _him_.

Stiles should run away again. He should pack up and leave Beacon Hills altogether, until he can be a real boy again, until he can resume his life. This is no place for him, living in the shadow of existence, playing pretend with his best friend. He wants too much and even though this is beyond what he deserves, it feels like settling. 

Stiles doesn't run away. 

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Are you gonna wine me and dine me?”

“You want that?” Scott asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Not really.”

“I can think of other rhyming things we can do,” Scott says with a mischievous smirk. “Follow me.”

Stiles groans when he realizes he’s going to be riding on the back of Scott’s death-trap of a bike for the second time in his life. He’d made Scott promise never again, but of course, that’s moot now. Plus, he can’t deny the allure of wrapping his arms around Scott’s middle, of pressing all up against his back, the vibration of the bike and Scott’s proximity setting his nerves alight. It reminds him of being thirteen and whole-body aware of Scott; always avoiding touching him because he’d chub up nearly every time.

They head to Derek’s loft. Stiles guesses he shouldn’t be surprised. Derek donated it to them when he left and Melissa probably wouldn’t appreciate strangers defiling her son in her house. When he climbs off the bike, shaky-limbed, he makes a show of looking the building over. It still looks like a wreck.

"Nice place.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Scott tells him. As they enter, Stiles sees what he means. The pack has been refurbishing. There’s furniture now; decent paint on the walls. In fact, there are new walls to be painted. They’ve subdivided the loft into smaller rooms. 

Stiles can’t remark on all the changes. He’d very much like to. 

Scott takes him up the staircase and Stiles swallows deeply as he sees the bed that used to be downstairs prepared with a new mattress and coverings. He smooths his hands down his thighs as Scott leans into him from behind.

The thing about this is that when he had let himself imagine it, it’d always been spontaneous; playful tickle wars turning into kisses, an argument twisting into a physical outburst, a softly-spoken confession late at night after pain and suffering. But this is too meticulous, too planned. It’s not a happy accident. He doesn’t understand how it feels so right. 

“Is this the good kind of nervous or the bad?” Scott asks. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

That’s it, isn’t it. He wants to. He doesn’t care if it’s a trapezoid instead of a square; the lines are there even if the angles are off. He’s gotten to the point where the sick feeling in the base of his stomach is overwhelmed by anticipatory fizzing, by the blood surging through his veins, by a need too long denied. 

He twists around and captures Scott in a kiss.

*

Kissing Scott is nothing he thought it would be and everything. Scott’s fiercer, hungrier than Stiles fantasized about. He holds Stiles tightly and takes control of the kiss. But he’s just as encompassing, just as intoxicating as Stiles suspected he’d be. Stiles’ heart beats faster with every slide of their lips, every press of their bodies. He strokes his fingers up the back of Scott’s shirt, needing to get skin to skin. Scott moans, throaty, then pulls Stiles with him onto the bed. 

Their shirts end up on the floor within seconds, jeans follow shortly thereafter. The sheets are cool beneath Stiles’ back, but Scott is like a furnace. He pulls away and sweeps his eyes over Stiles’ body, tracking the movement of his fingers, biting at his lower lip, and Stiles’ hips hitch up of their own volition. 

Stiles has seen Scott next to naked before, but never like this. Never hard because he wants _Stiles,_ because of shared touches and breaths. It short-circuits Stiles’ reasoning skills and makes him cup Scott through his boxer briefs, feel the thick, hot length of his cock. He strokes him through the fabric experimentally, gets him harder, wetter, until the head of his cock is poking out the top of his underwear and he’s pushing into the movement. 

Scott’s stomach flexes, his arms cord, and his thigh muscles tense into sharp relief. He alternates his watchful gaze between Stiles’ hand and his eyes, as if he doesn’t know what he wants to look at the most. Stiles licks his palm, pushes his hand under Scott’s waistband, and makes a stupid, needy sound when he finally wraps his fingers around Scott without any barriers. 

Scott doesn’t seem to like being passive, though. He bends down and takes one of Stiles’ nipples into his mouth, nips at it lightly, at the same time as shucking off his shorts. He drives their bodies together, using his strength so that they slip and slide. When their cocks touch, Stiles whimpers. Scott swallows the sound with another deep, filthy kiss and keeps them in constant motion. Stiles maps Scott’s body with his hands, with his lips. He explores all his planes and divots, cataloging Scott’s reactions. This will never happen again and he wants it to last.

The heat coiling in Stiles’ belly is unbearable, the ache a pleasure-pain he doesn’t think he’d ever get used to. Even though this is their first time, Scott seems to know how much he likes kisses against his neck, how he wants Scott to play with his puffy nipples until they’re sore, how he needs a firm grip against his dick. 

It’s over too soon and not soon enough. Stiles comes with a choked off warning, jetting hard against his abdomen. Scott only takes a few more strokes after that, eyes wide and lips glistening.

He barely broke a sweat and Stiles knows he doesn’t flush bright pink like _he_ does, but he does looks bashful and gratified and surprised. Stiles wants those expressions directed toward him forever. 

They lie on the bed, Scott swirling his fingers through the mess of them. Stiles has a million questions to ask and not a single compunction to voice them. He likes being with Scott, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, so intimate it feels like his own.

Scott's phone chimes and he grunts before unlocking it, sitting up as soon as he looks at whatever’s on the screen. 

“Shit. Sorry. I’ve gotta go.”

"I'm feeling very used right now,” Stiles jokes, because he expected this. 

Scott was probably drawn to Stiles because of a latent familiarity, mistook it for attraction, but now that the need’s been met, he wants to escape. It’s better to shine a light on it. After all, wasn’t he using Scott too? Aren’t his actions worse? If Scott remembered him, he’d never want this. 

Scott pouts, shakes his head. “No. It isn’t like that, I promise. It’s... a work thing. You know the drill. Someone needs my help.” Scott holds his phone out. “Can I have your number?”

Stiles keys it in, even while telling himself he should use a fake. He winces as he stands, looks around for something to wipe down with. 

“You can stay and have a shower,” Scott offers as he hurriedly gets redressed. “It’s downstairs, to the right. The loft door will lock behind you.”

Stiles watches the bob of Scott’s head as he goes down the stairs before he remembers to say thanks. He’s left alone with his guilt.

*

Scott texts him the next day. Stiles doesn’t respond for a few hours, because he’s fairly sure this is the worst thing he’s ever done in his life. That’s including the fact he’s technically killed people. Duping your best friend into sex is a whole new level of reprehensible. 

But he does respond. Scott’s message was a weirdly cute “had a lot of fun yesterday, would love to see you again”, as if they rode down to the beach and built castles, or spent the afternoon in a bounce house. It’s not his disarming confidence, it’s him at his dorkiest, and Stiles can’t resist it. This is how everyone falls for Scott McCall; he has all this power but he’s devilishly judicious in how he uses it. 

He invites Scott to his motel room. It’s a terrible idea, but he’s stroked himself off twice already reminiscing over the day before, so he does it anyway. Stiles has been jumping into puddles up to his neck ever since he can remember. Honestly, he wants to tell Scott off for being reckless as well, but he figures Scott can and would protect himself. 

“And you tried to criticize my place,” Scott says when he arrives. He frowns at the room and Stiles feels protective and indignant. The room’s a shithole, but it’s been _his_ shithole for weeks now. He tamps the feeling down with care. Scott’s here, with him again, and Stiles doesn’t want him to leave.

"You don’t find the coin-operated vibromatic bed classy?” Stiles asks. He wants to know if Scott will backtrack or lean into it.

“Well, you know, there are so many different classes.”

“I like to think that the bed came from Sophistication 101.”

Scott’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda funny?”

“Not recently.”

“Yeah, there might be a reason for that.” 

Scott smiles sweetly, like he always does when he’s trying to impress Stiles with his jokes. In the past, Stiles hasn’t validated him, afraid he’d reveal too much, but he does now, letting out a huff of laughter. He offers Scott a drink that’s refused and before he knows it, they’re kissing again. 

Scott sucks on his tongue with insistent, pulsing certainty. He angles his head perfectly, accurately predicting what Stiles will do, what he wants. Stiles already feels heated, amazed at Scott’s ability to get him from burgeoning interest to almost coming in his pants within two minutes flat.

“I thought about you all night,” Scott says into the hollow of his throat. “About what I wanna do with you.”

Stiles leans away, licks at his lips. Can’t stop looking at Scott’s. “Really? What were you thinking about?”

Scott braces his hands against Stiles’ arms and slides close again, dragging his fingers down. He whispers into the soft skin below Stiles’ ear. “Thinking about opening you up on my tongue and getting you loose and wet for me. Fucking you full with my fingers, then my cock, until you’re a quivering mess.”

Stiles chokes.

God, Scott is so sure of himself, so commanding. How did he get like this? Would he always have been this person without Stiles in his life? It’s a sobering thought. What if Stiles has been holding him back, making him doubt himself. What if all this time, Stiles has been the reason Scott’s quiet and shy and reserved? 

“What are you thinking about, Stiles?” 

“You,” Stiles says, then quickly amends. “Doing that. Those things. To me.”

“You want that?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Heat travels up Stiles’ spine, settles into all his joints. He takes a deep, bracing inhale and claims Scott’s lips in a kiss. His hands work at divesting Scott of his clothes, and he can’t help but peek at all of Scott’s golden skin coming into view, in between sucking on his lower lip and swiping deep into his mouth. 

The noise Scott makes when Stiles unzips his jeans, when he pushes down his own sweats, shoots straight through Stiles’ veins. Scott grasps hold of his ass and lifts him up, bodily pushing him onto the bed. He mouths and sucks at Stiles’ dick and balls through the fabric of his shorts, making it wet and translucent, over and over again, until Stiles is writhing from the stimulation. He watches heavy-lidded as Stiles wriggles out of his shorts and widens the vee of his legs, lifts up his lower back. 

It’d probably be easier to do this with Stiles lying on his front, but fuck, he wants to watch Scott, wants to look at him as he closes his eyes, bobs his head, gazes up at him with saliva-smeared red lips and intent. He has to hold the base of his dick so he doesn’t shoot off too early, and there’s a steadily increasing pool of precome gathering around his navel.

Scott’s measured and insistent with how he licks at Stiles’ hole. He alternates between broad and pointed swipes, holds onto Stiles’ thighs so he can move him where he wants him. His tongue is thick and wet and _exact_. 

Stiles’ hips jerk erratically, breath bursting out of him in unsteady syncopation. His nerves are singing with the sensations of Scott against and within him. This is nothing he’s ever had before and it’s incredible. He’s played with himself before, used too much lube, edged himself for hours, but it’s never been like this, never been so concentrated and unpredictable, and clever. 

“Feeling good? Okay if I add a finger?”

Stiles nods, says, “You’re a fucking wise-guy.” It sounds like a whine. He tosses over a bottle of lube, but Scott already has a small tube that he’s grabbed from the pocket of his discarded jeans.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You came prepared.”

“You opened the door wearing low-slung sweats and a shirt so tight and thin your nipples poked through,” Scott counters, like there’s an equivalence. 

Stiles thinks about it for a moment and realizes there is. There were a few ways the day was going to go. Lube would help in nine out of ten of them. 

Scott licks at him again as he warms up the lube between his fingers. He’s gentle as he presses against Stiles’ rim, careful. Yes, Stiles has taken toys and his own fingers before, but this is still new, shocking. Stiles’ feet slide against the sheets and he goddamn _trembles_. 

The pads of Scott’s fingers are so soft, rubbing at him until he’s relaxed and ready for more, ready for anything Scott’s willing to give. Scott pushes in deeper, adding more spit, more lube, until Stiles is sloppy with it. He presses and coaxes, finding Stiles’ prostate with an unerring precision. 

Stiles grinds down and up, urging Scott to go faster, deeper, but Scott slows down, pulls his fingers out, gets his mouth on Stiles’ hole again. 

It makes Stiles shake. It makes him groan. This is good enough as it is, but it’s Scott, the boy who stole his heart years ago and never even knew, the person Stiles has wanted in ways he’s never been allowed. He’s giving Stiles this, enjoying it just as much, making blissed-out little sounds that should be illegal.

When he fucks in again with his fingers, he’s more focused, concentrating on spreading Stiles wide. Remembering how fat Scott’s dick felt wrapped up in his fingers, Stiles is glad, even though he’s feeling a bit crazed and desperate.

Scott’s voice is husky as he slides his fingers in and out one last time and asks, “Ready?”

“Yeah. Have been for a while. Thanks for asking.”

Scott bits at the inside of his thigh in response, soothes it with a lick. 

He helps Scott slide on a condom and slick it up before he settles onto his knees. He bends down low, arches his back, makes it crystal clear he wants Scott straight away. 

Scott rubs up the cleft of his ass, palms his cheeks and holds him open. He nudges the head of his cock against Stiles’ hole and Stiles can feel himself _twitching_ for his thick length. 

Scott inches in, bit by bit, and it burns a little, but it’s so good. Stiles wants to keep Scott inside him forever. He clenches rhythmically, milking Scott’s dick.

“How are you still so tight?” Scott groans, breathy. 

“I’m highly strung,” Stiles says, but can’t say anything else after that, because Scott edges deeper into him and higher brain functions are no longer possible. 

Scott waits a while before he begins to pull out and thrust in. He molds himself to Stiles’ back, slip-sliding against Stiles and in the few seconds of observation Stiles can muster, he’s gratified to realize Scott’s as sweaty and warm as _he_ feels. 

Scott’s only managed a few thrusts before Stiles’ balls are beginning to draw up tight. The low grunts Scott’s making into the back of his neck, the steadiness of his thrusts, the fact he can lift one of his hands and start tweaking Stiles’ nipples while still holding himself upright --- it ratchets up the desire. The only reason he thinks he’s lasted this long is because he took the edge off earlier.

The combined sensation of Scott’s fingers against his chest, his thick cock driving into him, his breath cooling the sweat across his shoulders has Stiles rutting in counterpoint to Scott’s movements.

“I’m close,” Scott murmurs, sounding apologetic, like he’s sorry he’s brought them both so close to the abyss before thinking about the consequences of falling straight in. 

“Me too,” Stiles confirms. 

He cranes back to look at Scott’s face and it changes the angle, so that the pressure against his prostate intensifies. 

Scott’s eyes are limned with red, his nostrils are flared, his mouth is wide open. He looks like he wants to devour Stiles. And Stiles wants to let him. 

“You can let go, Scott,” Stiles says, because he can see the effort it’s taking to keep in control, because he thinks Scott’s waiting for him and he doesn’t have to, shouldn’t, should take his pleasure whenever he can. 

Scott exhales shakily, presses a kiss against Stiles’ shoulder blade and rabbit-fucks Stiles until he’s shunting him across the bed. He wraps his fingers around Stiles’ dick but doesn’t have to exert any other pressure except flexing his hips. 

Stiles comes, blinding, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulses four times in quick succession. His dick spurts again after Scott’s thrusts go frantic and uncoordinated. One last time when Scott’s weight descends on him, pressing him into the sticky wet sheets. 

He knows Scott came because of the way he said his name, strained and fractured into three syllables.

He’s happy not to move for another nine hours, but apparently Scott doesn’t get the memo, because he’s rolling to the side and pulling Stiles with him after a few moments. He grabs a washcloth and passes it over Stiles’ stomach, down past his balls and against his taint. The condom’s tied up and in the trash can. Scott’s so considerate. It’s almost sickening. Stiles would mock him, but he’s fucked out, wrecked, way too loopy to muster up the required amounts of sarcasm.

Scott lies back down with a lazy, happy-sounding hum.

“Is it okay if I sleep for a while?”

“Of course. I don’t mind. Sleep. Rest. Recuperate. Whatever you wanna do. I’m happy being your cuddle muffin.” Stiles winces. That was rough. He will literally never be smooth. “Just ignore my awkwardness. I can’t help it.”

“I’m usually the same,” Scott says with a snort. “But I don’t feel awkward with you.” Scott wraps his arms around Stiles’ middle, mumbles into his shoulder. His warm breath ghosts and chills Stiles, making him tremor. That might not be the only reason. “It’s so weird. You make me feel safe.”

There aren’t words in the English language to describe what Stiles feels in response to that. His body is equally confused. He wills his heart to slow the hell down, to stop trying to escape his ribcage. All the while his muscles flex and loosen. 

“Yeah. I heard stranger danger was a thing of the past. Safety in strangers is the new way to go,” Stiles says, hating himself as he does it. 

“Considering I’m the one with the claws and fangs, who are you saying that to? Me? Or yourself?” Scott asks, readjusting his arms so he’s cuddling Stiles even closer.

“Basically you’re saying you feel safe with me because I’m weak and defenceless, am I getting this right?”

Scott snuffles in assent. “You’re warm and comfortable too. I can totally fall asleep to the lull of your voice.”

A grin spreads across Stiles’ face. Against his better judgement, he _likes_ this side of Scott. “Fine. Sleep, wolfboy, see if I care.”

Scott gives an exaggerated snore that reverberates against Stiles’ back and as far as Stiles can ascertain, actually does fall asleep within mere moments.

*

The next few days are full of work shifts that Stiles can’t get out of if he wants to survive. He’s been eating ramen for a week straight and he’d love to be able to afford to add an egg or vegetables to it to make it more palatable. He misses creature comforts like balanced meals and people caring about what he might be up to.

Over this time, Stiles also helps an aging selkie find her pelt so that she can return to the sea. He finds it in the attic of one of her grandchildren, misplaced rather than deliberately hidden. He doesn’t handle her gratitude with much grace, tripping over his tongue and his feet as he tries to explain he doesn’t need a reward, he did it because he wants to help people.

The only thing he has at the moment are his actions. He wants them to matter. To mean something. To be good. 

He isn’t succeeding at that, completely, given his history of interaction with Scott. 

The problem with liminal spaces is that they’re fascinating when encountered temporarily, horrifying when they become your whole reality. 

Scott’s a tether between his old life and this one, and it’s a pull Stiles doesn’t have the energy to resist.

He’s exhausted by the end of the week and sits, propped up against the headboard as his bed jiggles from side to side, flicking through the texts he and Scott have been exchanging in quiet moments. They’re short and sweet, inquisitive but not pushy. When Scott said he wanted to know Stiles, he apparently meant more than his body. Which Stiles guesses he shouldn’t really be surprised by, but he is anyway. The questions Stiles can answer he replies to without hesitation. The things he can’t he avoids and hopes his deflection isn’t too obvious.

“You free?” lights up his screen as he’s gazing at a picture Scott sent of himself in a button-down and tie. A picture Stiles is 97 % sure he took.

“Yep. Wanna come over?”

“Be there in 10.”

Scott’s hair is damp, curling against his forehead and the nape of his neck, and he smells of shower gel, cologne and shampoo. His leather jacket is worn and tight across his shoulders and his jeans are dirty and ripped up. 

He ruins the bad boy effect by grinning sunnily and kissing Stiles’ cheek. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a giant nerd?” 

“Not once.”

Stiles doesn’t doubt that it’s true, from Scott’s perspective. Jackson’s brand of insulting was always harsher, meaner. No one else with any sense has ever had a bad word to say against Scott. 

Scott gathers him up in his arms seconds later, twines his hands around the back of his neck and presses him against the wall. He nuzzles against the hollow of Stiles’ throat and scrapes against the two day old stubble Stiles didn’t bother to shave.

“How do you feel about blowjobs?”

“Favorably.”

“Ever sixty-nined?”

“God, you’re trying to kill me. I haven’t, but it’s been on my list for the longest time.”

“You have a list,” Scott deadpans.

“Like you don’t.”

Scott concedes the point, licks his plush, kiss bruised lips and drops to his knees with disconcerting swiftness. Stiles rests his hand against the top of his head, brushes his fingers through his soft, wet hair.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be about turn-taking.”

“It’s not. But I’ve been dreaming about doing this for days, so, gimme a minute,” Scott replies, exerting pressure against Stiles’ hips, holding him still. He strips his pants with practiced efficiency and mouths at Stiles. His mouth is a hot, soft haven. 

Stiles knocks his head into the wall so he doesn’t rut forward, curls his fingers against Scott’s scalp. He hardens in a pathetically short time. 

Scott pulls off with a wet pop and looks up at Stiles, altogether way too smug. Stiles retaliates by casting his shirt off and onto the floor, dragging his fingers down his happy trail and around the base of his dick.

He smiles to himself as Scott's watchful eyes trace the movement, as his lips murmur something that sounds like, “fuck”. 

They arrange themselves on the bed, using protection even though Stiles would prefer them to be doing this bare. Stiles is trying to control his breathing because he knows that it’s going to be important, and also because he sounds like a dog in 100 degree weather. 

He is completely into this, as enthusiastic as it’s possible to get, but he’s worried he doesn’t have the necessary coordination.

But when Scott begins to suck him again, when he tentatively licks around Scott’s dick, none of that matters. As distracting as it is, having Scott’s perfect mouth around him, getting to be up close and personal with Scott’s thick length like this is a thing made of dreams. 

“Fuck, you have the prettiest dick. There should be an award. A medal. Could hang it right here and let everyone know you got the gold.”

Scott slides off and goes onto his elbow so he can chastise Stiles with eye-contact. “You’re ridiculous.”

Stiles winks, wraps his lips around the head of Scott’s cock, and hollows his cheeks, delighting in Scott’s full attention and distressed sounding whines.

It turns out it isn’t difficult at all timing sucking Scott down with breathing. It comes utterly naturally. When Scott almost deep throats him, his abdomen tenses so hard he thinks he’ll be feeling it for a week, but he retaliates by using his hand as well as his lips and tongue to bring Scott to completion.

Later, they’re sharing a bottle of water between them, Scott’s leg slung over Stiles’, when Stiles asks something that’s been on his mind. Because he has his own theories, but he wants to hear it from Scott, understand what he believes his motivation to be.

“Why do you want me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you’re hot as hell, you know what I am but you’re not terrified of me, and we seem to have some kind of preternaturally sexy psychic link. Why would I want that?” Scott says with a roll of his eyes. He leans in, peppers Stiles’ collarbones with short, sucking kisses. “Why do you want me?”

“You’re beautiful,” Stiles says without reservation. 

“I got the hint when you were worshiping my pretty dick forty minutes ago.”

Stiles shakes his head, curt. Looks Scott in the eye. “I meant more than physically. You’re kind and generous, would do anything you could to help somebody. You fight to be a good person, when so many people these days don’t even bother to be okay.”

Scott’s eyes go shadowed. “You don’t really know anything about me.”

It takes all of Stiles’ strength not to say he knows everything about Scott, more than Scott knows himself.

“But I still know this,” he asserts. 

*

Sometimes, Stiles finds himself watching Malia and Lydia, his heart aching with the thought he may never talk to them again. Malia’s his once, Lydia’s his almost. They both represent past love he’ll never forget. 

They seem happy without him, though. Content. Lydia’s been packing for college, and by the looks of it, she isn’t leaving much at home. Stiles thinks she’s probably gotten into MIT or Carnegie Mellon University. She made no secret of the fact she wanted to leave Beacon Hills physically, even though she promised to provide information, advice and protection via Skype. 

Malia has a part-time job and seems to be helping her dad fix up their house. She was thinking about going to Beacon Hills Community and Stiles can’t tell if that’s still true, but he hopes she has some plans. More than he does. 

Stiles watches, thinks about the conversations they haven’t been having, the friendship he’s been missing. How much he’d like to be near them without creeping them out, hearing the cadence of their voices, the affection in their tones.

But then he’ll get a text from Scott; a line, or a picture, or an emoji, and he’ll be all right. He’ll feel okay. 

*

It becomes a routine Stiles doesn’t want to change. Every couple of days he or Scott will suggest they meet. This will lead to them learning and exploring new things about each other. Like how Scott really enjoys it when Stiles pins his wrists and sucks hickies into his skin, how Stiles goes wild for a finger sliding into him alongside Scott’s cock. 

There’s so much more that Stiles wants to try. He thinks about it constantly. The taste of Scott, the smell, how he looks all mussed up and sated, how he sounds when he’s napping tucked up under Stiles’ arm. 

They go to the diner together one morning. Stiles has been saving his pennies and he wants to repay Scott for the shakes. This diner does the best breakfast burritos in town and Stiles has had a specific combination of fillings in mind for Scott for years. He orders before Scott can protest, then watches in unchecked glee as Scott moans sinfully around jalapenos, tater tots and triple cheese scrambled eggs. 

“How is this so good? These things shouldn’t be this delicious together. No pressure, but you should try to get a job planning meals for the elite. You might actually get paid a decent wage.”

“What makes you think I need money?”

“I’ve been to your motel room. I’ve seen your clothes. You’ve blown me off for at least two different jobs. You _could_ be a secret billionaire, but if you are, you’re on some kind of reverse rumspringa.”

Stiles laughs into his own burrito, grimacing when had his fillings fall onto his plate and he’s reduced to using a knife and fork. 

“I don’t wanna be presumptuous, but _you_ look college-aged. Shouldn’t you be at Berkeley right now?”

“UC Davis, actually, but I deferred for a year.”

“Why?”

“Honestly? I needed a break. I needed to not deal with even more expectations and commitments. How about you? You’re not in your twenties either.”

“Like you accurately predicted, lack of funds,” Stiles answers, because he can hardly say _lack of identity_. “What’re you gonna study?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure yet. It’s a toss-up between nursing or veterinary medicine. They’re both areas I have acquaintance with, an interest in. I initially wanted to go to Davis because of its veterinary medicine program, but my mom’s a nurse and I’ve been watching her work more lately and it would mean I’d be out in the community helping people quicker.”

The last time they spoke about this, Scott wasn’t even sure he was going to get into college. Stiles didn’t have the mental capacity to care about schooling, only about maintaining his friendships through the upheaval. Seeing Scott talk about this with such consideration twists like a dagger in his gut. 

“Whatever you decide, I’m sure it’ll be the right decision,” Stiles says, more earnest than he ever usually is. “You seem like the kind of guy who’d look at all the angles.”

It’s an understatement. Doesn’t go far enough in saying Scott seems like the kind of guy who’d stick by his best friend even when that friend was fucked up by self-blame and taking it out on others. Or the kind of guy who’d die more than once to protect the innocent. Or who never deserved a life of pain and suffering and should have all the happiness in the world. 

Silence descends on them. Scott obviously busies himself by eating like he’s ravenous. Stiles watches him and wonders if he’d get told off for recording him. He practically sounds like he’s making ‘nom nom’ noises. It’s adorable. 

“Are you gonna be able to manage pie after this?” Stiles asks when Scott’s plate is nearly clear.

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“So, apple or cherry? No wait, of course. Your favorite. Pecan.”

Scott gives him a weird look, takes a swig of his coffee. “I suppose I could share a slice.”

“Nope. No sharing. It’s all the way or nothing at all.”

“I get the feeling that’s your life motto.”

Scott doesn’t know how true he is.

*

Work, sleep, eat. Stiles gets disturbingly used to relative anonymity as the weeks go by. He feels like he’s an NPC in someone’s play-through of an adventure packed video game. Something expansive from Bethesda or Bioware. A figure that lurks in the background but doesn’t seriously affect the main plot. 

It’s bizarre because some people know who he is – or at least know that he’s someone they can turn to for assistance. He thinks Diana the selkie might’ve been giving his number and regular haunts out to other supernatural people in need, because he gets contacted no fewer than seven times. 

He actually gets fired from one of his jobs because he skips a shift while helping one of Satomi’s pack-mates find one of their old friends. He thinks at first that it’s related to the Ghost Riders, but it turns out they’d eloped and felt too ashamed to let everyone know. 

In his increased downtime, Stiles gravitates even closer toward Scott. Because the truth is, even though he exists as a background shape in other people’s lives, he only feels fully realized when they’re together.

“I think about you an unhealthy amount,” Scott says one day, Stiles’ fingers curling into his hair as he rides him. He’s tight and hot and perfect and Stiles doesn’t register his words for a moment because this has to be his favorite position, Scott controlling the speed and depth while his throat and mouth are ready for the taking. 

“Yeah, Scotty?” Stiles asks. “You picture this? Work yourself up into a frenzy remembering all the things we’ve done together?”

Scott’s eyelashes flutter and Stiles can _see_ him swallow. There’s a noticeable flush over his torso and surging into his cheeks, he’s so overheated. His tattoo glistens with sweat and Stiles bends to the side to kiss it, lick a trail up his salty-sweet skin so he can bite at his earlobe. 

He cants backwards so he can meet Scott’s grinding, wraps the fingers of his left hand around the meat of his hip. Scott squeezes down on him, and fuck, Stiles hadn’t realized how close he was. It’s like a gut-punch, a shove at his solar-plexus. He comes, shuddering madly, biting his lip so he doesn’t emit a high-pitched screech and shatter Scott’s eardrums. 

Scott rides him until he’s way too sensitive, until he’s too soft, so Stiles flings him down against the bed and brings him off with fierce strips of his hand. Scott murmurs obscenities the whole way through, so Stiles doesn’t think he minds. 

“You don’t have any plans to go to, like, Arizona or somewhere for a week?” Stiles asks after they shower and they’re changing. He’d prefer for them to stay naked, but Scott has to get up early to work at the clinic and Stiles was due for a once in a month lie-in. 

Scott’s abuela lives in Arizona and when they were younger he’d be forced to spend a week or two with her and his cousins who’d tease him because they didn’t think he was Latino enough. He hated it. But Scott is big on duty and obligation, and he does love his abuela. 

Scott pauses in lacing up his boots and shrugs. “It’s not a solid plan, no, but that might change. I’ll let you know in advance.”

He seems distracted when they kiss goodbye. Stiles thinks he might have unwittingly reminded him of a responsibility he’d been trying to avoid. 

*

 

By unspoken agreement they don’t discuss supernatural shenanigans beyond vaguely referring to Scott’s abilities. Scott remarks once or twice that it’s good Stiles knows he’s a werewolf with a heart-shattering note of relief, but never seems to want to talk about it beyond that. It’s almost like a vacation. When Stiles gives time over to thinking about it, he realizes he and Scott hadn’t spoken about much other than saving the world for the last two years. At least now they _chat_ , even though it’s often a precursor to doing other things with their mouths.

Stiles knows Scott is fine when the full moon is up, but he wonders about Malia, about Liam, whether they’re finally wresting control of their inner beasts. 

“Liam?” Stiles asks when Scott invites him to the loft and he’s got scratches down his arms. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, exhausted, but intent as he watches Stiles look for the first aid box. 

They used to keep it in the cabinet under the mirror and Stiles is happy to see it’s still there, though there’s a couple of bills piled on top of it. Stiles pulls it out with an exaggerated ‘ahah!’, stumbling back a step. 

There are photos up of the pack at the loft now. Stiles wonders if they’ve been able to smell Stiles on Scott. If they’d know what they’ve done. Stiles would deserve their scorn.

Scott’s fingers flex as Stiles drops to his knees and begins tending to his wounds. Stiles likes being between his knees, sliding his palms up Scott’s thighs and feeling his muscles twitch. Scott’s wearing boxer shorts and Stiles is supposed to be healing him, but he teases him too, brushing the pads of his fingers up under the hem of the shorts, against the delicately soft skin of his inner thigh. 

“Did I tell you Liam has anger issues?” Scott inquires, voice loud in the space between them.

Stiles snorts reflexively. Scott’s putting it mildly. Liam’s gotten better at controlling himself, with meditation, with medication. But you don’t just get over IED, just like Stiles hasn’t gotten over his ADHD, and Liam has such a stressful life. Of course he’s going to find it difficult. 

Stiles cleans the cuts and starts to wrap a bandage around the largest, gentle as he can be. 

“He was trying to protect me,” Scott says. “But sometimes when he gets riled up, it takes a while for him to come down.”

“I know how that goes,” Stiles admits. 

He busies himself with shoving the first aid kit under the coffee table, registering Scott’s movement. He’s dipped down lower on the couch, so that Stiles is enveloped by his legs. It’s warm, here, and Scott smells good – not dirty, but not clean either. 

Care and maintenance done and dusted, he closes the gap between them, pushes down Scott’s waistband until it’s snug under his balls. He hovers over the tip of Scott’s dick with a raise of his eyebrow. 

Scott takes hold of the back of his neck and urges him forward, and who is Stiles to object? His mouth’s been watering for Scott since he’d gotten the text to come over. He has a set plan of attack for making Scott whimper and it involves carefully timed sucking, rhythmic pulses of his hand at the base of Scott’s dick, and testing his ability to hold his breath.

*

Scott’s lying naked on his front, his ass raised by a pillow and his legs bent wide. Stiles massages him, digging his fingers into his tense muscles. Scott had turned up at his door looking disheveled and fragile, a slowly trickling cut across his forehead. Stiles has incense burning and a herbal rub Deaton showed him how to make half a year ago. 

“How’s that?” Stiles asks, concentrating on the expanse of Scott’s back rather than all the obscene thoughts he’s having about licking him out. 

“Good,” Scott mumbles. “You have magic fingers.”

“ _Yeah_ , I do.”

“That wasn’t supposed to be a come on.”

“You don’t need one. You’re stripped bare, on display in the center of my bed, and I’m smearing you with oil.”

“Point,” Scott says. He glances over his shoulder, tightness around his eyes. “But is it okay if we don’t do much? I’m kind of exhausted.”

“Not a problem. We can just do this,” Stiles assures him, gently sliding his fingers wider over Scott’s spine, into the dip of his lower back. Scott melts into the sheets, whole body going loose. He sighs, the sound soft and sweet. Stiles had thought he was relaxed before.

"Stiles, do you ever feel like there's something missing in your life?”

“Occasionally,” Stiles says, non-committal.

“Most of the time, I’m fine. I have an amazing mom. My boss, Alan, well he’s more like a dad to me. My actual dad’s an asshole, but he’s trying to be better. My friends, my pack, are amazing. But there are all these spaces. Sometimes they seem huge, insurmountable. Other times it’s small stuff, you know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He rubs a circle into Scott’s back, then another one, concentric. “I know what it’s like to look at your life and find it wanting.”

“So what do you do?”

Stiles texts Scott, that’s what he does. He spies on his family and friends. He researches the Ghost Riders and waits. Waits, and tries not to think about anything too hard. 

“I concentrate on the things I do have,” Stiles says, truth and deception all at once. 

*

Stiles reads about it in the newspaper, which is fucked up on multiple levels. No one actually _reads_ the news anymore from a goddamned piece of recycled gray pulp, and he can’t believe there’s a reporter somewhere in Beacon Hills who cares enough to write about disappearances and reappearances.

But there he is, on his ten minute break from washing dishes, and the paper is open on the countertop, drawing his attention. 

There’s an article about a twenty-four year old woman turning up sobbing, saying she was taken by masked monsters on horseback.

“It’s the darnedest thing,” the article quotes her mother as saying. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

_“Mom’s usually overprotective, but she didn’t care,” the twenty-four year old, who asked to remain nameless, said. “I turned up and she was like ‘did you get the milk?’ They took me weeks ago. The only thing that kept me sane was thinking about how hard my family would be fighting for me.”_

_When asked how she escaped, she shook her head. “I didn’t. They let me go. I think they had no choice. There were others. Other people. Some who I don’t think are regular people, if you get my drift.”_

Stiles spends the afternoon trying to find out anything else he can, including tracking down the reporter, but he comes up empty at every turn. There’s nothing new to be learned. The Ghost Riders let someone go, but now she’s in the wind, refusing to talk about it any further. 

Back at the library, Stiles brings up the texts he’s already pored over, the few scraps of information known about the Ghost Riders, and notices an oblique reference to veils crashing down and power sources rerouting. 

He’s not sure, but he thinks that means the Ghost Riders aren’t as invincible as they first appeared. It twists him up inside. He hadn’t acknowledged he’d been operating on the assumption they were indestructible and not worth the fight until this very moment. 

*

Stiles thinks it would have been kinder for the Ghost Riders to kidnap him like they did the others. At the time, he’d been confused. Why was he dispensable? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to take the True Alpha’s right hand man?

He realizes now that it was the ultimate punishment.

They stranded him in this netherworld of watching what used to be his life continue without him. And worse still, no one cares. He’s not even a footnote, not even a shade. 

He’d actually tried, in those first few days, to talk to his dad. The pain had been indescribable, to look into his father’s eyes and see nothing – no warmth, no understanding, no exasperation. 

He’d called him “son”, but not familial. Not with love. Like Stiles was a wayward kid taking up his precious resources and time. A foreign annoyance buzzing around, taking him away from the things that mattered most to him. 

And now, Scott appears to be acknowledging Stiles’ absence, even though he doesn’t recognize it. He’s accidentally picked up on a disturbance in the flow of reality. His observation skills have noticed gaps in the patterns around him, but his reasoning skills don’t have enough of the whole picture so he can’t figure out what they may be.

People are returning from the Ghost Riders’ clutches, the spell that ensured their ignored disappearance shredding into ribbons.

Stiles wants to tell Scott, wants to explain. But what can he say? 

_“You know me better than you think you do.”_

_“I took advantage of that. Of your ignorance. I took advantage of you because I’m selfish and weak.”_

_“I’ve needed and wanted you ever since I can remember. More than I was willing to acknowledge. More than I should be allowed.”_

_“Every time we touch I’m reminded you wouldn’t be doing this if you knew the truth. So I keep silent and take what I can.”  
_

The worst thing isn’t that Scott may never forgive him. It’s that he might. 

His own beta tried to kill him, and Scott tutors him in biology. The Alpha that turned him against his will has worked with them several times against common enemies. He’s currently locked up, but Stiles has to wonder – for how long. An old friend turned up and Scott welcomed him with open arms, but he wasn’t the friend he promised to be, and Scott was killed for his kindness.

He’s no better than Liam, who can’t help himself. He’s no better than Peter, using Scott’s body to his own ends. No better than Theo, betraying him with makeshift friendship. No better than he has been in the past when he’s hurt Scott because he can’t handle his own emotions. 

There’s no solution. No quick fix. 

Even if he gets his old life back, which is starting to look like it could be a distinct possibility, it won’t be his old life. There’s too much baggage, too many omissions, too many missteps. 

And the thing is, he’d give this all up to have Scott look at him again the way he used to. For Scott to _see_ him. But that’s impossible now, after everything they’ve done, the violation that sits between them, heavy like a storm cloud.

*

He doesn’t stop seeing Scott. He should, he should shut things down, leave him alone. But he can’t yet. Not without drastic intervention. Not without an outside force. He’s drawn to him, the proverbial mosquito to the bug zapper. He has impure thoughts about unravelling Scott and putting him back together with spaces only he can fill.

Stiles has never fared well with guilt. It eats away at him, gnawing at his insides. He wants to strike out and maim. But not Scott. Not again. 

He forgets to eat, he only sleeps when he crashes. He works endlessly, constantly, trying to drown out every thought. When he looks in the mirror he sees the ghost he’s been reduced to, a husk of a human being. 

“You okay?” Scott asks when Stiles pauses and simply looks at him in the doorway of the motel room. He has a golden halo from the flickering motel sign and it casts half of his face into relief, half into shadow. 

There’s an unnamed emotion lurking beneath his steady gaze. It reminds Stiles of when they first met, except not, of course. The first time they met Stiles’ shins were covered with sand and he was stomping around yelling about being _‘Gozilla’_ , Godzilla’s smaller cousin. Stiles means the first time they met like this, with Scott ignorant of what Stiles actually is to him, but attracted to him despite that. Or regardless. Stiles still hasn’t figured that one out.

Stiles lets him in with a tired-sounding, “I’m all right.” Scott can probably read the lie with every single one of his extra-sensory features, but he doesn’t call it out. 

They eat Thai-style take-out made by the Italian couple down the street because it’s all they can afford, and watch Chopped because Food Network is one of the few channels that works on the crappy cathode ray tube television Stiles is convinced the motel owners time traveled to acquire.

“Have you ever done something really terrible; half accidental, half intentional?” Stiles asks, because he thinks the answer will be no, but maybe not. Maybe Scott will talk to him about turning Liam, or searching Corey’s memories.

“Derek,” Scott says, then seems to double back. “I have this ally named Derek. Things haven’t always been easy between us. We didn’t trust each other, for good reason. I used him in a plan to beat one of our enemies, but I didn’t explain it, I didn’t think he’d follow through if he knew. It was wrong.”

“But you trust each other now?” Stiles asks. This is the first time Scott’s ever opened up to him about this, is only doing it because he doesn’t think Stiles knows the whole story. He didn’t know Scott was harboring any guilt. He never thought he should, even though at the time he was pissed he’d been left out of the loop.

“We stopped lying to each other. It helped.”

There’s a lesson to be learned here, but Stiles has never done well with direct instruction. He’s asked to jump and it’s likely he won’t ask how high, or left or right, but if he’ll get a reward for jumping the furthest distance.

“Sometimes I think lying’s the nicest thing you can do for somebody,” he confesses. 

Scott pushes him down against the bed, straddles his thighs. “Ahuh. In this circumstance, I think I agree.”

Scott presses his thumb against Stiles’ lips, then his index and middle fingers. Stiles arches up and captures them in his mouth, swirling his tongue around. Scott’s eyes darken as he gives a fierce suck and Stiles realizes this is unparalleled power. 

He prepares Scott slowly, attentively, watching every ripple of reaction cross his face. Scott moans for him, swivels his hips to take more, doesn’t seem to mind when Stiles has slicked him up with too much lube. He fumbles with the condom, wants to make a joke about it not being XXL. But the joke would be lost on Scott and just thinking about that has Stiles frowning again, biting into his tongue.

Pretty soon, he isn’t thinking about much at all.

Scott is completely overwhelming and intoxicating like this, facing Stiles as he eases down onto him. Stiles is always surprised by how tight and encompassing Scott is for him. 

“God, you’re just eating me up,” Stiles says, grinding his teeth so he won’t dig his fingers deeper into Scott’s hips, won’t start a litany of begging. 

Scott’s eyes flash red and he curls his lip up, baring his teeth. His thigh muscles bunch as he pushes himself up and down, riding Stiles effortlessly. 

“Hold my wrists?” Scott asks, and who is Stiles to refuse? 

He rubs his hands against the sheets and then delicately curls his fingers around Scott’s wrists, feeling the tendons shift, feeling his pulse race. He holds Scott’s arms out to his sides and Scott uses the additional leverage to pump up and down faster and harder. 

“You gonna come all over us?” Stiles asks, staring at Scott’s dick, red, shiny and leaking between them, his balls looking tight and heavy. “Without either of us even touching you?”

Scott nods swiftly, lets out a noise like a sob. His breathing is ragged and labored. He gets tighter and hotter, until Stiles is convinced he’s going to shake apart. Stiles leans back a little, but clearly didn’t think about the consequences, about what the change of angle might do.

Scott scrunches his face up and chokes out a plea before his dick’s jetting so high his come is hitting Stiles’ chin. It’s without a doubt the most erotic thing Stiles has ever witnessed and he comes immediately afterwards, moaning Scott’s name repeatedly.

They get cleaned up lazily, Stiles half-hearted about it because he likes Scott’s come rubbed into his skin. 

He takes his place in Scott’s arms, deliberately not thinking about the future, about decisions he’s made or choices he’s contemplating. Concentrating only on Scott’s body heat. For the first time in a week sleep slinks over him like a shroud.

“I’d do it all again,” Scott whispers, the words a phantom against Stiles’ cooling skin. Stiles thinks he’s talking about what they just did and he has a minute of smugness, because _yeah_. But then Scott says, “Sometimes, doing the wrong thing seems like the only course of action.” 

Stiles slips asleep before he can ask him about it.

*

He saves up for two weeks to buy the ticket, writes and rewrites his dad a letter he’ll drop off at the post office before he takes the bus. He sees Scott four times within that space, each occasion feeling like he’s being dragged deeper underwater. 

He’s running away. He’s not proud of it. Two more people have shown up in Beacon Hills out of the blue. Two more families have been reunited. This is a good thing, a great thing. It shouldn’t fill Stiles with dread. 

But it does, it does because he fucked up. He should have been honest right from the start. Scott might not have totally believed him, but he might’ve trusted his instincts and seen that Stiles wasn’t a threat. They could have worked against the Ghost Riders together. 

Stiles convinced himself he was protecting Scott, not encouraging him to go after yet another supernatural foe hell-bent on screwing up his life. He told himself this was as much for Scott’s benefit as it was his own. He lied, constantly, because he was given a choice and he chose Scott. Not Scott’s best interests, not his welfare, but _him_ , to have and to hold.

There are consequences to those kinds of actions. Stiles isn’t in the right headspace to see them through. Not with the memories of what it’s like to be with Scott so fresh, ever present in his mind. 

He doesn’t want to lose Scott. He’s lost him already.

Stiles asks Scott to meet him at the motel. His bags are packed, full of the ephemera he’s collected since he began living in purgatory.

Scott has been distant and cagey with him, like he senses something’s wrong. Well, Stiles’ chemosignals probably gave the game away. Self-loathing and blame must have a particularly acrid odor, he thinks. Bitter and tannic. He wonders how Scott can breathe, regret so thick in the air. Stiles hates seeing his usually sunny demeanor be blank and unresponsive. He’s loved basking in Scott’s light over the summer. 

Scott takes a look at the bags, sets his shoulders.

“Scotty, there’s something I gotta tell you,” Stiles says, selecting his words with as much courage as he can muster. Scott’s gaze is penetrating, impossible to decipher. “I, er, I have to go. Away from Beacon Hills. It’s an unavoidable commitment.”

“For how long?”

“Not sure. A while. But I wanted you to know I’ve really enjoyed spending this time with you. I mean, saying that is an understatement of epic proportions. You’re incredible. The most remarkable person I’ve ever met and that’s not even counting the whole super-strength, True Alpha thing.”

Stiles doesn’t say, _"I'm in love with you. I don't want that to be a burden, but I need you to know.”_ Even though he thinks about it constantly, even though it would at the very least provide Scott with a reason for his deception, if not the excuse.

Scott squints at him. “You’re breaking up with me by moving out of the state. Wow.”

Stiles waves his hand in the air. “I’m breaking up with you _and_ moving out of the state, there are semantic differences.”

“All right,” Scott says, mildly, but with an edge of steel. He quirks an eyebrow. “One last fuck?”

And Stiles should say no. Scott’s angry, it’s written in every line of his posture, in the considered lack of emotion in his face, in the words he’s saying and the words he hasn’t.

Stiles has been the king of shoulda, woulda, coulda since the Ghost Riders stranded him. He may as well continue the trend.

They strip in silence. It’s far too reverent for one last angry fling between fuckbuddies, feels more like a final goodbye between starcrossed lovers. Stiles strokes his fingers lightly against Scott’s torso and tries to commit each part of him to memory; every patch of Scott’s skin, every reaction caused by a touch or a kiss or a lick.

He bends down and nips at the juncture between Scott’s neck and shoulder. 

“Harder,” Scott says. “Until you think you’ll break the skin.”

Knowing Scott will heal, he does as he’s asked, while Scott slides his palm over his ass and pulls him closer into his body. 

“Tell me, Stiles, do you wanna go?”

“No. But I have to. There are things you don’t know about me, Scott. Things that would make you see me differently.”

Scott kisses a line up Stiles’ throat. “Have you hurt people?”

“Yes. The people who matter most to me. I’m not like you. I’m not unerringly good.”

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Stiles launches himself up, knowing Scott will catch him. “I know you _better_.” 

He wraps his legs around Scott’s waist and rubs up against him, tangling his hand into his hair, tilting his mouth so they can kiss until they’re red raw.

Scott takes two steps to the right, so he can hold Stiles against the wall. Stiles knows it’s not because he doesn’t have the strength to prop him up unassisted, and is because he has better things to be doing with one of his hands. 

It’s so slow. Measured. Full of languorous kisses. Scott seems to do everything except touch him where he wants. When Scott eventually slips a finger into him, Stiles keens, flames igniting along his nerves. 

Scott sucks in a breath and gazes at him. “You prepped?”

Stiles hums in reply, takes Scott’s lower lip between his own. He only needs a cursory amount of attention from Scott to open up for him. 

It’s more friction than all-out fucking, two bodies converging. It’s goddamned _poetic_ and Stiles hates that this will be the last time. He’ll never feel this way again, never truly have a life fulfilled. It’s so good it’s painful. He aches. Scott is deep within him and he wants him there forever.

He strokes himself off in time with Scott’s constant, percussive juts. Cries out when he comes, goes senseless when Scott continues pushing into him, when Scott chokes out his own climax. 

Stiles has hardly settled his feet on the ground when he feels claws against his thin skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, cradling the back of Stiles’ neck. He presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles’ lips, whispers his confession against the hollow of his ear. “I remembered you a month and a half ago. You gave yourself away. Didn’t even know you were doing it. But I wanted to have this, if only for a short while, even if we never get it back. It’s something I always, _always_ wanted that I knew I couldn’t have.” 

His claws dig in deeper and he raises his free hand behind his own head. Stiles watches him, eyes blurring. The pain is blinding and the world feels shaky beneath Stiles’ feet. His stomach is swooping strangely. 

“Seems weird, right?” Scott continues, eyes flashing red. “That an Alpha should be able to mess with their own memories? It’s a failsafe. For if we realize we’ve been corrupted by our own power. A way to start again, try anew. We’ve got an hour and then it all disappears.”

 

“Scott?” Stiles mumbles, vision going spotty. He’s beginning to fade to black. He can feel his memories begin to ebb away, can feel everything slipping out of his grasp. “Why?”

There are tears in Scott’s red eyes and he’s trembling violently. “Guilt. Yours and mine.”

And the world turns to nothing.

*

Stiles shouldn’t be loitering around the clinic, he knows that. But he read an article this morning that suggests that the Ghost Riders’ magic is weakening and he wants to find out for himself. People are returning to their loved ones, to their friends. And maybe, just maybe, he can be one of them. 

He’s hated living this half-life, always being a step out sync. Stuck in perpetual limbo.

He doesn't know what makes him decide to try Scott before his dad, but he’s ended up here, waiting for Scott to emerge for lunch. 

“Scott?” he asks, tentative.

His best friend is a sight for sore eyes. His hair is slightly longer than the last time Stiles saw him, curling across his forehead and ears. He’s wearing his denim jacket, is holding his bike helmet loosely in one hand. Stiles wants to wrap him up in a hug and never let him go. It’s taken way too much self-will and self-denial to stay away from Scott as the Ghost Riders’ magic has been in effect. He can’t adequately contain the emotions that well up inside as he looks at him; all the longing, all the want.

He remembers how painful it was, spying on Scott from afar at the beginning of summer. How he had to leave Beacon Hills for a few weeks in order to stop torturing himself. 

Scott narrows his eyes, then sucks in rapid, noisy breaths, like he’s stumbled on a revelation. He steps close. “Stiles. Stiles? What’s going on?”

“How much do you remember?”

Scott squints at the ground, clenches his jaw. “I don’t... “ He looks up. “You were gone. Disappeared. But then it was like... like you never existed. I could sense there was _something_ wrong.”

“The Ghost Riders.”

Scott nods vigorously. “Alan’s been helping me fight them.” He takes an aborted step closer. “God, Stiles. I didn’t even know to miss you.”

“That’s okay, Scotty. I missed enough for the both of us.”

Scott surges forward and finally, _finally_ pulls Stiles into a hug. His arms are strong and warm and safe and Stiles can’t stop himself from leaning into it, sliding his hands around his back before another thought can cross his mind. It’s sense memory, it’s greed. It’s a longing to be known again, to have Scott’s care and affection. There’s a mark on Scott’s neck and he worries at it with his nose, nuzzles him and breathes in his clean, crisp scent.

Scott eases away slightly and kisses his cheek. Stiles is sure he blushes. It’s such a sweet, awkward gesture. Something different, something new. “It’s so good to have you back.”

It's a perfect reunion. Stiles almost can't believe how easy it will be to slide back into his proper life, the real world again. To have his rightful place by Scott’s side.

Stiles brushes a hand up into the soft hair at the back of Scott’s head. Slides his fist higher and gives Scott a noogie. “You still got me.”

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Stiles participates in a sexual relationship with Scott, knowing that Scott doesn't remember who Stiles is. There is an imbalance of power there that could easily be seen as advantage-taking (and is, by Stiles himself.) Scott's ability to consent isn't marred beyond the memory loss.


End file.
